III
European cities have the best cafés. If Clarice Starling has learnt anything from her time with Hannibal Lecter, man of fine cuisine and culinary proficiency, it is that nothing in the world compares to the food here. Long swept under the rug are her days of Steakhouse and Starbucks. In Spain she ate real food, drank real coffee and dined like a real woman.
Today, she sat on the extended sidewalk of the Del Jardín Piazza. It would be unlikely that anyone from Clarice Starling's former life would recognise the petite woman, now known as Sara Torres. Her newly styled, died honey-golden hair whipped in the passing mid-day breeze; elegant Gucci shades disguised her untouched deep blue eyes. She would have happily agreed to wear color contacts, but Hannibal strongly pitted against it. Her eyes often said more to him than her mouth, and he was not fond of silencing her soul. Collagen played no part in her appearance either; a woman can change without help from the greatest hand of technology. Much of her transformation radiated outward from the change that took place within her.
Unbeknownst to most, Mrs Torres was actually on duty. Back in Madrid, their first spot of residency in Spain, she had accepted a job offer from a friend to work as a part time Private Investigator, in conjunction with the Spanish Authorities. To begin with, accepting such an offer seemed ludicrous and simply foolish- the wife of a cannibalistic serial killer on the force. But after several discussions, they decided that such a position was likely to work in their favor. She keeps close tabs on the American FBI's business with their affairs and is therefore better informed in relation to their safety. It was a classic case of keeping your foes close by and sleeping with the enemy.
This is the life she thought, as she sat back in the bamboo chair observing the happenings at the small market place across from the café. Two years ago, anything remotely stakeout related meant her mustang, cramps, late hours and a flask of weak, watery coffee supplied by some obese chief in charge. She had advanced in life; this job far exceeded her Special Agent title. Of course, she had taken 6 months to re-train, but nothing too strenuous or out of her league. She was still Clarice Starling; she was still a capable ex-government agent.
Life, for the while, was happy again. She crosses her pinstriped pant legs and shifted her gaze slightly to the right. She watches a small, Lebanese woman fiddle with several bunches of carnations and smile at the locals passing her by. Serial murderer posing as Florist. Possible. No one suspects the flower lady. Flowers make people happy. Happy people establish trust more easily. Her mind clicks over as she watches Nara Landolli, secondary suspect in Clarice's latest assigned case.
Six women so far have been killed with another hospitalised and near death. They are calling this one The Picasso. All victims were found in their homes, grotesquely distorted with assortments of their body parts detected on makeshift canvases, painted into pictures. Clarice took a moment to deeply inhale. She'd seen a lot in her time, and this case was no different from the others. She just needed to take moments here and there to clear her head of the pictures her mind had subconsciously stored of the bodies: ripped, cut, slashed, stuffed.
Nara seems unnaturally cheery; like the perky sales assistant who wishes you a 'good day', but honestly wouldn't care if you were mugged in the mall parking lot. Clarice shifts in her seat, and listens to the old man busker playing his viola. Is that illegal? She thinks, but doesn't really concern herself with matters other than what's related to her case.
"Otro café, Señorita?" The young waiter appears at her table with a warm smile.
She doesn't like to be disturbed mid-thought. In fact, she barely registers his presence until he taped her lightly on the shoulder, looking over her head in the direction of her immovable gaze.
She turned suddenly. " Oh. Ah. El perdón?" She stumbles with her Spanish for a moment, but regains herself shortly. He is asking you if you want another drink fool!
He repeats himself and she replies fluently. "No. gracias. Yo'll es la partida en breve"
The man nods, still smiling, and moved to the next table. She watches him walk away, and then turned back to the street. Nara is still there. Talking.
She sighs. When is this woman going to move? Don't you eat? It's lunchtime. Spaniards don't work over lunch! Her fuse was slowly losing its length, and her patience was running dry. She needed her to move to another location. She needed more interaction, but above all she needed more notes to take back.
Alex Tuhmar, her assigned field partner, sent her out on a mission, and be damned if she'd return empty-handed. So far, The Picasso case was a dead-end. They had three secondary suspects, no witnesses, six bodies and one woman incapable of telling her horrific story. Evidence was greatly lacking and that was frustrating. She almost wanted to approach Nara and demand she attempt to disembowel her in the Piazza Square.
Her cell phone was ringing. She checked the caller. Tuhmar.
"One of these days, I will get through twelve hours without you checking up on me," She directs her earnest, perfectly mastered, British accent, onto the street and into the receiver, away from other diners.
"One of these days I'll receive a nice, civil greeting" A deep voice answered in the same tone but with a strong Spanish accent.
"You'd think you had the wrong number. Now stop being a smart arse, Tuhmar" ASS! ASS. I WANT TO SAY ASS! She inwardly grins.
"Women! Always breaking my heart. So what's happening Sara?" He had an uncanny ability to turn a soon-to-be quarrel or some form of useless banter into a serious conversation.
"Your wife wouldn't be pleased about that!" She paused to listen to his chuckle. "I'm still watching. She hasn't moved much. I'm getting bored, and thinking thoughts of enforcing a homicide." Her eyes remain on the florist.
"Desperate for evidence Sherlock? See! I knew I should have come along." He prods on; she can almost see his toothy grin on the other end of the line. "So there's nothing new I should know about?"
"No. Nothing new. But you'll be the first I call if flower lady lashes out with those hedge trimmers."
"Nice. Real nice. Well…until then."
"Goodbye Alex!" She sternly replies to the dial tone. He'll get his one-day!
She hits the end button on her phone and checks to ensure she hadn't drawn any unwanted attention to herself. Check. Her eyes then move back to where Nara should have been. She's moved. Ah there, heading south. Hit it Starling!
Clarice swiftly rose from her seat, leaving behind sufficient cash on the table to cover her expenses and a generous tip. She passed the waiter at the door and gave him a quick smile, but said nothing in her haste.
On the square, she follows the tacks she saw the twenty-something woman take. Most of the people were seated for lunch, so she moved fairly freely on the specious brick ground. On the southern most corner, she saw a head of dark curly hair take a right. She fasted her pace inconspicuously. If Nara turned, she had to look ordinary, at a decent and comfortable distance.
Clarice watched as the party in question strode into a local side gallery. Inside she saw her approach a young man. They both smiled and endured a short embrace. Lovers? Family? Great! More idle chitchat. Through the painted glass she watched the two enjoy the others company.
Her cell rang again. I'll kill him if he doesn't stop…
The screen flashed H. Her heart skipped a beat.
"Andres." A moment of silence as he listened to her catch her breath.
"Have I caught you at an awkward moment, my dear?" His voice set her spinal cord to tingling.
"No. Well yes… But I can manage. Is there something wrong? You don't usually call at this time." Momentarily she looked away from the gallery.
"Concern? For me? Charming Sara." They never used their real names over the phone, or anywhere in public.
She huffed softly, offended by his comment. "Lack of segue. Did you call for a reason? I am on duty you know." Somehow, she couldn't quite manage to be angered.
"Yes. I'm sorry for the interruption. Though, I feel compelled to remind that is was you keeping me from work this morning."
She smiled and flushed at the thought of the morning's activities. She felt faint.
"Still there, my dear? Are you quite alright?" She sensed his amusement.
"I think you know, Andres." She desperately wanted to say his name, but bit down on her lip in frustration.
"Mmm. Quite right. I do apologise for my former lack of segue, though. You'd be pleased to hear that I indeed called for a purpose at this unexpected hour." He paused. Over the static crackle, he thought he could faintly hear a viola playing in the distance. "I've invited some guests for dinner this evening. I thought I'd check with the cook before I confirmed." There it was. The bait. Would she take a bite?
Shoot! Dinner? Tonight. Me. Cooking. Chriiiistt!
"Ahhmm. Oh Guests?" She was struggling to remember what he'd said. She'd forgotten completely that tonight was her cook-up speciality.
He seemed surprised. "Yes, a work colleague and her husband."
"Right. Well. Umm. Ok then." Her mind was too baffled to fully grasp the concept of 'having guests for dinner'.
There was a long silence before he spoke. "Annette and myself have some work to catch up on. I was hoping you could keep her husband, Marco, company for a short while." More bait. Nothing so far. He began to wonder if she was in ill health.
Clarice raised an eyebrow. "You had better not be talking lap dances Dr. Torres" She then grinned. She could get used to these little midday calls.
"No. He's not so lucky! Just trivial chatter whilst we finish some paperwork" He too was smiling at her comment. It evoked some tasty pictures from his memory palace.
"Alright. Well, I'm in a rush. I'll talk with you this afternoon." She turned back to the gallery.
"Good day, my dear" Another dial tone.
She threw her phone into her bag and walked closer to the window. Nara was gone. The backdoor at the rear end of the show room was flung open.
Damnit! She cursed herself as she took her phone out for the third time in a space of ten minutes. Tuhmar was gonna crack it.
Runaways and surprise chef all within a matter of minutes. Damn him for being so distracting. And guests? What the hell is with that?
She had a feeling that this day was going to get worse before it got better.
A/N: For L, who I really didn't want to evict. Thanks for your support.